


A Most Ancient Kind of Magic

by TheDove



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/F, F/M, I tried not to describe it in detail though, I'm sorry Norrell (no I'm not), M/M, Soulmates AU, also a Sir Walter flashback that nobody asked for not even me until I wrote it tbh, canon suicide attempt, major merlin centric emergency chapter, smut in chapter six (I did my best), there's a Lost-hope bit in there too, will tag ships as chapters progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2017-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 23:54:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5721808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDove/pseuds/TheDove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>the soulmates AU nobody asked for</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Portugal 1811

**Author's Note:**

> Literally nobody asked for this.  
> Still, I hope you'll enjoy

Jonathan Strange was delighted to receive the news that he’d be leaving for the Peninsula, and did not for a moment think about the writing on the small of his back.  
Such writings on one’s body were a common and natural thing among English men and women, but were considered of such a personal and intimate nature that, naturally, they were never to be talked about.  
In truth a long time had passed since Jonathan, together with his little cousins Margaret, Maria and Georgiana, had enquired about the existence of a place called “Lisbon”, back in the house in Charlotte-square; and he had no longer thought about it from the moment he first laid eyes on Arabella Woodhope.  
She had scarlet lettering around her left ankle, but had never seen his.  
But it did not matter for theirs was a marriage of love and he felt he already missed his wife dearly as soon as he boarded the ship that would take him to Portugal.

Major Colquhoun Grant shouldn't have been in Lisbon that night, and was only there because he was substituting an officer who had been shot that very morning.  
He was instructing one of his subordinates on what had to be done with the provisions from England when he heard an unfamiliar voice saying some all too familiar words “I am the magician”.  
Grant blinked. No, this could not be.  
His horse felt his sudden tension and he had to pull the reins to have him stay still. The man who had uttered those unspeakable words was still standing there and was now asking him where he might find Wellington.  
“Lord Wellington? He’s not in Lisbon.” the answer was deliberately given in a much haughtier tone than he the one he used when he usually spoke.  
“Well where am I to find him?” the man asked, rather impertinently.  
The Major avoided looking him in the eye as he spoke  
“Lord Wellington goes wherever he is needed and he is needed everywhere.”  
Satisfied with this non-answer he left to get to the nearest building where he could find an empty room and a mirror.  
When he did, he locked the door, took off his jacket and lifted his tunic. There they were, right under his collarbone, the words that had caused much teasing (and perhaps some jealousy?) from lovers present and past, 'I am the magician’ in red letters on his skin, no longer scarlet but burning crimson. He touched them with his fingers and felt his skin unnaturally warm around them. “Damn!” the oath had escaped his clenched jaws against his will, how was he going to tell De Lancey?

He had had no more time to think about the man in Lisbon because he had been sent on a mission that had failed and as a result Wellington’s newly acquired artillery had been captured by the French. He was being told off by the General himself when suddenly the man appeared again, at headquarters, and was noticed by his Lordship. Grant stood motionless behind Wellington and learned that the man was indeed a magician and that his name was Strange. He couldn’t however think about mr Strange at the moment because his Lordship had just ordered him to bribe the local militia so that they would fight with them and he had to leave at once if he didn't want the general to be even more irritated with him. 

Later that night he sought out Lieutenant Colonel De Lancey after his meeting with the general was finished.  
“So, this new… magician then, had you seen him before?” Grant enquired as innocently as possible.  
De Lancey started laughing.  
“The magician! Oh you missed the best part! When his Lordship asked him if he could make more men and cannon appear he simply said he can make it rain! Oh but Wellington was glorious telling him he and the other one had been nothing but a great nuisance to the Army, you should have seen his face! He even suggested to plague the French with locusts and frogs!  
And did you know he was so frightened when he heard the gunshots of the men who were shooting squirrels ?”  
De Lancey was laughing so much he could hardly breathe so the major laughed with him and decided it wouldn't be wise to further elaborate on the subject. 

A week had scarcely passed when the general’s most trusted officers saw the magician again, almost as if they had summoned him by talking about magic, and his Lordship was in a good enough mood to invite him to sit and have breakfast with them.  
Grant had always been secretly interested in magic, an interest largely due to the lettering on his skin (that had curiously never turned back to scarlet), not that the major would have told anyone, and was trying to explain a way to write magic spells but was being clearly misunderstood by Wellington who decided to ask the magician instead.  
Strange had clear blue eyes and dark curly locks, Grant was able to observe, and a handsome face too.  
The magician was answering Grant's, or rather Wellington's question and this gave the major an excuse to stare at him. He was a very handsome man, but also perhaps a little melancholy.  
"There are many procedures as many I daresay as for making war,good and evil" he was saying. That was sensible answer, even his Lordship was impressed, so he next asked "Can a magician kill by magic?" Strange expression suddenly became very grave “I suppose a magician might, but a gentleman never could”  
Grant too was impressed, but couldn't help himself from feeling a twinge of sadness for that man who seemed to genuinely hope he would leave the battlefield behind a gentleman.

"Listen Grant, what is going on between you and Merlin?" De Lancey was draped across Grant's small cot, undressed from the waist down, cheeks still flushed and a new vivid bruise on his neck. "What do you mean? There is absolutely nothing 'going on' between me and the magician" Grant did not want to end that most pleasurable evening talking about Merlin, of all people.  
He tossed a clean cloth at De Lancey without even looking at him.  
"See? This is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't stand to be in the same room as him, you don't like to talk about him, you even refuse to look the man in the eye for God's sake! But, when you think no one is watching you stare at him dreamily like ... Like ... Like those young ladies do with Wellington's portrait!”  
De Lancey delivered his speech while putting on his breeches and stood staring defiantly at the major, who had yet to put his tunic back on.  
"Is it because of the words? You know, him being a magician and all- Grant! The words! They're crimson coloured now! But how-" De Lancey had known Grant for some time and in a quite intimate manner, so the guilty look on the major's face answered all of his unspoken questions.  
"I see..." He said softly, with just the faintest note of surprize in his voice.  
Grant was struggling to find the right words to reply but couldn't, so he simply said "I didn't know how to tell you", which was desolating but not untrue. "Oh it's all right!" De Lancey sounded oddly cheerful "mine are too!" he surreptitiously took off his neckcloth, jacket and shirt and raised his right arm. Just above the elbow, in bright crimson lettering, stood the very first order Wellington had ever given him. 

In that very moment Wellington was staring in the mirror at the crimson coloured words "Yes Sir!" on the left side of his torso with a rather stern expression on his face. The words had been crimson for quite a long time. The fact that they hadn’t turned purple or black and blue was reassuring but he was beginning to doubt they would stay that way if he did not at least make an attempt at finding this fellow, for it was a fellow he’d be looking for, he knew his wife or mistresses had never addressed him in such a soldierly manner.  
He had never thought of asking anyone for help on the matter, these weren’t things that could be easily talked about, and besides, what could be done in such a situation? Suddenly he remembered the magician, and even though he wasn’t one of his most long-acquainted and trusted men, he might be the only person able to help.

“Merlin!” his Lordship began as soon as the two men were alone “Your road was good road after all, and so I have decided I can trust you.” as he was saying this he took off his coat and loosened his neckcloth. “Thank you my lord” Strange was quite taken aback by the sudden change of atmosphere in the room. Wellington continued “I will ask you a question that is of a somewhat personal nature. If you do not know the answer to this question you will leave and tell nobody about it, understood?” the magician swallowed “Perfectly my lord” Wellington nodded, satisfied with his answer, then proceeded to remove his shirt, point at the red lettering on his side and ask  
"What are these?”  
Merlin looked intently at the words and smiled most excitedly “These words signify that the people 'engraved' with the other's first words ever spoken to them are bound for life” his Lordship, who usually mastered his emotions, even in the most dire conditions, looked quite shocked. Strange took little notice of it and went on “It is a choice made for them before they were born by a most ancient magic, much more ancient than the one of fairies or the Raven King even, but they are not magically bound, they have to choose each other every time”  
“Every time?”the words had escaped the general’s mouth against his will.  
“Well, according to Pevensey this bond goes beyond the natural death of the individuals- but then again this one of the most obscure theories, it is not, my lord, a respectable theory as it were, you see-“ Wellington cut him off “Yes thank you Merlin, but I have summoned you here because, now that you have proven yourself an expert on the subject, I wonder if there is something you might do about it”  
“About what exactly my lord?” Strange interjected  
“About finding the other person at the other end of this bond for life!” Wellington spoke as if it were the most natural thing in the world so that Strange wouldn’t sense the urgency of his request.  
“Right, yes my lord! I think there is something I can do … I’ll be needing my silver basin- shall I go get it Sir?” he was obviously delighted at the prospect.  
“Go.” Wellington allowed himself to collapse on his chair as soon as the magician left the room. A bond for life. How unexpected. He heard Strange’s hurried footsteps outside the door and rose with his usual haughty expression as if the turmoil of the soul he had momentarily succumbed to were never there.  
“I’ve got it Sir!” he’d never seen the magician so ecstatic as he poured water into the basin and the beckoned impatiently to his lordship to come closer.  
“May I?” he asked gesturing towards the words on the other man’s skin.  
“Oh go on!”  
Strange lightly trailed his fingers over each letter as Wellington saw, in amazement, that they were no longer crimson, but gold. The magician was whispering some arcane spells over the water in the basin, then, when he touched it with his finger, a vision appeared: it was lieutenant colonel De Lancey, in his own tent, examining a spot on his right arm where the words on his skin were gleaming gold too.  
Strange looked up and saw that his Lordship was smiling. 

 

Grant had made sure that Strange's dead man was seen to and then went looking for the magician himself to see how he was coping.  
He had told him that his mist had saved lives that day, but was afraid he hadn't been able to convey all of his gratitude just by clapping his hand on the magician's arm, still unable to look him in the eye.  
He simply had to get a hold of himself, yet he was already there, outside Strange's tent, feeling like a young man who wants to ask the prettiest girl in the room to dance with him.  
He entered and found Strange on the floor,staring at the air with glassy eyes, a half-empty bottle of port in hand and an empty one beside him. "Your man has been seen to, Merlin" using the nickname his Lordship had given him helped put the major at ease.  
"Thank you major Grant" his voice was colourless, he didn't look up.  
Grant stood there rather stiffly wondering what he was still doing in that tent when Strange began to say, to no one in particular “He stole some sherry-wine from my room while I was still in it, you know? Practically killed my father that same night. Horrible man. Practically killed himself I should say”  
Grant had expected anything but this from the man who had vehemently talked back at Wellington, surely out of shock, he had thought, just a few hours earlier.  
He was prepared to deal with someone crying and sobbing, not unlike many civilians he had had to deliver news of a family member's death to, or someone shocked and shaking like new recruits after their first battle.  
Instead he had found himself listening to mr Strange's peculiar account of Jeremy John's life, his speech gradually becoming slower and more difficult to understand at every swig he took from the bottle that he did not offer the major. Finally he stopped talking because he had fallen asleep.  
Grant did what he would do with any drunk comrade, so he helped the magician on to his bed and out of his jacked and shirt.  
As he turned him to the side, to be sure he wouldn't choke on his own sick, he spied some red letters on the small of his back.  
He couldn't resist and read "Lord Wellington? He’s not in Lisbon."


	2. Portugal 1812

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And so the peninsular war was no longer marked solely by battles lost and won.  
> For the general and the colonel were now the happiest of lovers, and the major and magician were beginning to become the best of friends.

Following Jeremy John's death, Jonathan Strange had become more and more consumed by his work. Wellington required different feats of magic every day, and the loss of Norrell's books was forcing him to explore new, or rather old, kinds of spells and enchantments.  
In the evenings, either ecstatic or deeply despondent, depending on the outcome of his work, he’d sit with the soldiers whose letters he still read for them, not having received any of his own. He enjoyed listening to the accounts of their lives back on English soil, stories of everyday struggles in small villages near rivers and brooks, near green fields and familiar trees, because they made him think of home.  
He also enjoyed listening to the never-ending narratives, imaginary or not, about their wives and lovers and how, inevitably, they’d always end them with the story of when they had matched the writing on their skin to the other’s, most of them accepting the certainty of the situation as a foundation for their future life together.  
Such things, Strange thought, were much easier for country folk than they were were for ladies and gentlemen, such as himself and the wife who would not write to him.

Still night after night his curiosity grew until he had to get himself a proper mirror and borrow one from a captain, for magical purposes of course, and could finally have a look at the words on his back.  
He was greatly astonished to find they had turned crimson! And even more so when he realised the memory of the circumstances in which they were spoken to him was still in his mind, intact and clear as day. But how could it possibly be major Grant?

Strange earnestly endeavoured not to think about it for the time being, the major hardly spoke to him after all!, but whatever plan he had thought of to face up to the situation, everything changed on the day Grant was captured by the French.  
"He's worried sick that 'un" the soldiers were commenting around their small fire,"did you see his face when he got the news?" The impromptu impression of Strange's face made everyone chuckle "I wonder why though, I've never seen them talk much"  
It was true, they didn't talk much but Strange was now determined to change this as soon as the major was safely returned to his regiment. He was, of course, certain that a successful rescue mission would be carried out in the immediate future, and, although he'd never admit it, he was also half hoping that he'd be amongst the rescuers. 

It was on the afternoon of the fourth day of Grant's captivity that Wellington finally sent for Strange.  
The magician was hastily ushered to his lordship’s room where he found the general at his desk, a look of profound exhaustion on his face as he sat tormenting a couple of slips of paper between his fingers.  
"One of my best men has been captured and we simply cannot afford to lose him. I trust you can do something about it and that you can do it as quickly as possible. That is all. I shall see you in the morning, there isn’t a moment to lose.”  
Strange had never seen his lordship so worried about something and, worse still, never so careless about concealing it from his men.  
But Wellington was no longer the only one who couldn’t afford to lose Grant.

So Strange returned to his tent, took out his silver basin and newly acquired mirror, intending to performed on himself the same spell he had used on Wellington’s crimson lettering. When his own words turned gold, a vision of Grant, wrists and ankles tied, surrounded by sneering French soldiers, appeared on the water.

Grant felt the skin under his collar bone warm up and if he had looked at it he’d have seen the letters in glistening gold. He thought of the magician, of what a shame it would be if the French decided to execute him, that he would never know ...

Strange brusquely exited his tent, still in shirtsleeves, demanding a coffin, a request that was met with loud indignation, for coffins were hard to obtain, and the locals would only use them for their own dead, but was granted without further delay when the magician had made clear that he’d only be borrowing it. 

The more superstitious soldiers steered clear of his tent that night, and the braver few who stayed saw him extract damp red clay from the ground by magic, leaving a dark hole in a nearby field, like a sinister portal to hell. But what he did with that clay they never saw, for he immediately returned inside, already muttering enchantments under his breath.  
Right before sunrise he left his tent, covered from head to toe in sweat and reddish earth, because he urgently needed the uniform of an officer of the 11th Foot with which would carefully dress whatever it was he had placed in the coffin, which was discovered to be a large and crudely made man-sized clay doll. A few men crossed themselves as it was being taken away.  
Curiously, when those who were to take him on the rescue mission, lead by the fearsome capitan Saornil, arrived and everything was set and ready to go, the magician re appeared washed and dressed as best as he could.

After days of riding and then waiting on a hill near the main road they finally saw a large party of French soldiers, among them was major Grant.  
Strange felt as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his chest, but the major was not saved yet, and it was all up to him now.  
He carefully took the clay creature out of the coffin and had it sit on a rock. Having ordered the suspicious looking guerrileros to go and shoot at the convoy, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  
He had never before attempted such complex piece of magic. He was worried, but if he could find a way to concentrate solely on the spell, and on nothing, or no one, else, everything would be well.  
He allowed himself one last fleeting thought, the memory of Grant’s beautiful benevolent eyes, and then there was only magic.  
He felt the air thin around him, and the familiar sensation of incommensurable elation and arcane power that always came to him when he cast a spell.  
Energy flowed from his mind, his body, his heart, it flowed from them and trough them all at once. Then the world went momentarily silent and still. 

Suddenly they were being fired upon, but major Grant didn't have time to dwell upon the matter because he began to feel quite unlike himself and, for several moments, could not see, hear, or even feel what was happening around him. When he was able once again to make use of his senses, he found himself on the ground and staring at a smiling Merlin who looked exceedingly pleased with himself. He helped the major up and dusted off his uniform, in a rather uncharacteristically affectionate manner, then offered him some cold chicken, while opening a bottle of claret, as if it were the most common thing in the world that they should be sitting on rocks enjoying a nice cold lunch, even though one of them had been rescued from the French by magical means only some minutes earlier.  
The guerrilleros were still firing at those very same Frenchmen, and Grant looked inquisitively at Merlin as if to say, and what of them? Merlin smiled again and remarked that he was very much reminded of Brighton, sitting in the hot sunlight. "Brighton is all very well," said Grant, surprized by the unprecedented friendly tone the conversation was being conducted in, "but I prefer Weymouth"  
"You amaze me" replied Strange "I detest Weymouth. I spent one of the most miserable weeks of my life there. I was horribly in love with a girl called Marianne and she snubbed me for a fellow with an estate in Jamaica and a glass eye"  
"That is not Weymouth's fault!" Grant spotted the returning Spaniards and greeted Saornil by waving a chicken leg at him.  
Whatever it was that had made Merlin so sociable, Grant was infinitely grateful for it. It didn't matter if he loved women, the writing on his skin and his recent friendliness were enough to give him ... hope. 

That night, in celebration of major Grant’s safe return, a number of officers had been invited to dine in Wellington’s lodgings. Amongst them was also, of course, lieutenant colonel De Lancey whom, Wellington observed, was drinking more than he usually did, which was odd. Moreover, instead of behaving in a livelier and more lighthearted manner, like he always did under similar circumstances, he was quieter, more composed; smiling but never laughing and, from time to time, casting a sideways glance at Grant and Strange conversing amiably in a corner.

As the night progressed, one by one, each guest left, Grant and Strange together, until all but De Lancey were gone.  
He himself had stopped drinking some time earlier and was now in the peculiar state between not quite drunkenness and not yet soberness, in which one is wary of peril but unafraid of taking risks. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.

Wellington was watching him with amusement, had he fallen asleep?, when he opened his bright blue eyes and focused them on the general, determined not to let his gaze falter.  
“Are you alright William?” Wellington asked. He had mentally begun referring to the colonel by his Christian name, since the night he had discovered that the writing on their skin matched, but had never done so aloud.  
De Lancey, who was still wordlessly staring at him, looked a bit disconcerted and also vaguely reassured as faint smile lit up his face for a moment.  
“My lord” he began “There is something I feel I must tell you, trouble is, I simply don’t know how to go on about it. I have been searching for the right words all night and haven’t found them, not even with the help of “ he eloquently gestured towards the empty wine bottles on the table. “So I must show you instead”  
Having said so he took off his jacked and pulled up his sleeve, revealing the crimson order on his skin.

Wellington smiled.  
“Help me out of this will you?”  
De Lancey had not been expecting such an answer to his great revelation but, nonetheless, he obediently helped the general out of his coat and shirt.  
And then he saw them, in bright crimson on Wellington’s skin, the words he felt in his heart were undoubtably his. He felt like crying. And laughing, and dancing. It felt almost too good to be true.  
Suddenly two strong arms pulled him into the embrace he had been longing for since that brief exchange of words had taken place.  
The kiss that had started out shy and soft grew more passionate and urgent, hands aching to finally feel the other man’s skin, bodies responding to said touch.  
Thankfully the both of them were experienced soldiers and did not, despite the obvious distraction, neglect to be aware of their surroundings. They begrudgingly let go of each other as soon as they heard footsteps approaching, as to not be discovered by the servants in an obvious state of dishevelment and undress.  
As they left the room they made plans to meet again, since the French gave no sign they’d be losing the war soon, the newly (re) united lovers had plenty of time.

 

And so the peninsular war was no longer marked solely by battles lost and won.  
For the general and the colonel were now the happiest of lovers, and the major and magician were beginning to become the best of friends.  
Little did they know the bliss would only last a couple of years, when victory would only be a military action and dark feat of magic away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter pays homage to one of my favourite parts of the book and also answers the question, what happened between Jeremy's death and what happened in the mill that finally made Strange and Grant talk to each other like civil people.


	3. Portugal 1814

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> dead neapolitans and aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an 'emergency chapter' pls forgive me  
> Special thanks to @AlexSimon for the apparent peacefulness, and for being a great writer <3

Without general Caffarelli’s cannon the French were doomed to lose, which meant that the war would soon be over.  
The general had gotten used to the celerity with which the magician carried out orders and demanded to know the location of the stolen guns by the morning after the day he got the news.  
There was little time left for the magician to come up with a sensible plan, which was further hindered by the notion that with new cannon in the British Army’s possession the war was easily won, and so they had to be obtained by any means necessary.

Nobody would have imagined what horrors they’d witness when the necessary means in question were bodies brought back from the dead by magic.  
Wether or not the magician who had set himself the task of doing so was aware of them, nobody could have known either.  
Except for maybe major Grant, who, initially, had quite liked the dangerous look in Strange’s eyes when he mentioned having some Neapolitans amongst the dead, but then greatly regretted telling him so while he watched spit into the mouths of “living” and breathing decayed corpses.  
Strange had warned them about the ancient magic he was to perform, pleading it wouldn’t mentioned in dispatches even, but nothing could have prepared them for that most gruesome spectacle.  
Still, they finally had the information they needed, everyone left driven by the equally powerful needs to urgently send for the guns retrieval and exit the dreadful mill and the perambulating horrors within it, leaving the shocked and shivering magician behind.

A few days had passed before anyone realised they hadn’t seen the magician since the rising of the dead Neapolitans.  
The first one to do so was, of course, major Grant who had a hard time forgiving himself for his lateness, after having found Strange in such a wretched state as he had never seen him in before.  
The memory of having to extract his own gun from the desperate magician’s hand stung almost as much as a physical wound, and would continue to do so for years.  
Thankfully Wellington had had Strange out of the mill, which was then set on fire, together with the horrors within, straight away.  
Grant would have wanted to follow him, but was ordered immediately to surveil some proceedings on the other side of the camp, and could not disobey.

The hours passed drearily by and, receiving no news of the magician’s whereabouts by sunset, Grant decided to leave a friend in charge of his nearly completed task and that he’d go looking for Strange by himself.  
He knew he’d be severely reprimanded and did not care, the war was almost won, and more important than victory was the desperate, haunting look he saw on Merlin’s face that morning.  
The magician was not in his tent.  
The major became increasingly alarmed while aimlessly wandering through the camp, where could he possibly be?  
It had already gotten very late when a couple of soldiers took pity on Grant and told him they had seen the magician in a nearby field, a good half-mile from the last row of tents. 

Grant was, of course, familiar with the area; as soon as he had gotten out of the men’s sight he started running towards the field as fast as he could, hoping to block out with fatigue any thoughts of Strange mere will power wouldn’t.

The night was dark but the moon shone brightly, and made it easy for Grant to locate the magician, rejoin him and unceremoniously slump against his side, still out of breath from the run but visibly relieved to find the man sitting in apparent peacefulness on the ground, not in the state of he had expected to find him in.  
Strange was looking at him with a bemused expression on his face, although the ghost of a grin hovered on his lips. 

“What are you doing here Merlin?” Grant wasn’t even trying to hide the concern in his voice anymore.  
“I needed … air” Strange’s voice was firm, but Grant could see he was remembering all that had happened while he was in the mill alone. Well, alone with the dead Neapolitans.  
“They wouldn’t let me sleep you know? Thank God they couldn’t climb either or else who knows how you’d have found me I- thank you, by the way” the magician’s sad eyes reflected the starry sky above them, Grant had to catch his breath at the sight of them “You were the only one who came looking for me.”

He wanted to take Jonathan in his arms and not let go, but of course that was not a thing he could do; he simply put his hand on the other man’s shoulder, hoping to convey in that small gesture all of the comfort he so desperately wanted to provide.  
“The war is won, you’ll soon be able to return home, home to your wife” God he hoped Strange couldn’t tell that reminding of his wife at home filled him with such sadness.  
“My wife… But she must never know of these horrors. I wish to keep her safe from all that I have seen and done. She couldn’t possibly understand. And I fear I shall never be quite fit to explain, or to want to remember …”  
Grant could clearly see that he was once again remembering the dead Neapolitans, he recognised the very same haunted expression he had worn when he had told him that he did not know how to make them dead again.  
My poor Merlin, he thought, he could not even begin to understand what the magician must be going through.

Impulsively he pulled him closer and held him tightly against his chest, as he buried his head in the crook of Grant’s neck. Both of them could feel the other’s frantic heartbeat, and the more they clung to each other, the steadier it got.  
Finally Strange looked up, his blue eyes dry and no longer wide with fear.  
Grant kissed him.  
In truth there was nothing else he could have done in that moment, all of his soldierly self discipline had left him the minute he had felt just how perfectly Merlin fit in his arms.  
It was nonetheless a dangerous thing to do, to kiss a married comrade, so he abruptly pulled away, flushed and much ashamed.  
“I am so sorry, Merlin” he couldn’t bring himself too look the man in the eye, but neither could he bring himself to let him go.  
It was the most unexpected thing to suddenly feel the other man’s hands on his face, gently forcing him to look into his eyes a second time.  
“And why would you be? We are meant for each other, it is written on our skin” 

Grant was shocked, he didn’t understand how Merlin could have known, he’d had been so careful in concealing his true feelings, or so he had thought.  
A twinkle in the magician’s eye suggested that magic had been employed in the discovery.  
They kissed again, it was a sweet tender kiss, a ‘getting to know each other kiss'.  
The shared the most unique sensation, it felt almost as if their souls had been reunited trough their bodies.  
They lay side by side in the cold damp grass, savouring the newfound intimacy the revelation had bestowed upon them, simply enjoying the notion that they could finally stop hiding.

“Do you really believe the war’ll be over soon” Strange sounded genuinely preoccupied.  
“Certainly! The French keep on retreating, we’ve very nearly driven them all out, you know?” Grant’s cheerful tone did not seem to affect the magician at all.  
“And where will you go?” he enquired, frowning slightly.  
“Well I suppose I shall return to London.”  
“We shall see each other often then!” he was visibly relieved.  
“But, Merlin, what about your wife?” It pained Grant to mention his wife, still he was an honourable man and would not disgrace someone else’s marriage because of red letters on his skin.  
“Oh but her words are not mine own, I am sure of it, and they are neither crimson nor violet.” Grant hadn’t the faintest idea of what Strange meant by this, but felt reassured by the confident tone in which he was speaking.  
“We shall be together, we must.”  
Grant nodded, profoundly aware of the importance of that statement.  
Now that they had found each other, they should never again part.


	4. London 1811-1814

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was the most unlikely thing that Mrs Strange would return to Harley Street after her first visit, and unlikelier still that she would come alone, that is to say not accompanying her husband to meet with Sir Walter.  
> And yet, against all odds, one unusually sunny afternoon, Arabella did return, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was a pretty triggering bit in canon that I tried not to describe in too much detail on here.

It was the most unlikely thing that Mrs Strange would return to Harley Street after her first visit, and unlikelier still that she would come alone, that is to say not accompanying her husband to meet with Sir Walter.

Lady Pole knew that her husband made sure she shouldn’t receive any visits due to her ‘illness’ , and although the magician’s beautiful wife had been a positively unexpected exception to this, her ladyship had reason to know she’d never see Mrs Strange again. 

The way she had behaved during their first encounter was enough to discourage anyone from ever wanting to go trough a similar experience again; still, if she was not mistaken, and she was certain she wasn’t, she did not spy in Arabella Strange’s eyes the fear and confusion she saw in the eyes of everyone else with whom she had tried to communicate her distress.  
"I hope they will let you come again Mrs Strange,” she had said as a way of bidding her farewell “I see no one.” her voice was the voice of somebody accustomed to having their every good thing in life abruptly taken away.

And yet, against all odds, one unusually sunny afternoon, Arabella did return, alone. 

Sir Walter was away, which was no surprize, because, after his last most violent mirror-smashing quarrel with Lady Pole, he had resorted to spending the least possible amount of time at home.  
Most of the servants had gone too, except for the ones who had known Sir Walter since he was a child, and thus had stoically decided that the affection for their master exceeded the eeriness of the house, where wooden floorboards creaked where there were none and one could always hear the lugubrious tolling of bells in the distance. And except for Stephen Black of course; it was he who, in a moment’s awakening from his low spirits, had let in Arabella Strange, hoping her reassuring presence might do her ladyship some good.

Unbeknownst to Stephen, Mrs Strange shared his hopes, for she had become increasingly worried about Lady Pole after her first call at Harley Street, although she couldn’t quite understand why.  
She seemed convinced that what had really lead her there was the the disquieting memory of Lady Pole’s words "I would be better dead than as I am.”

As the wife of the second magician in England she could not for a moment admit, not even to herself, that the true reason for her concern was the absolute certainty that the helplessness that lay behind her ladyship’s eyes had something to do with magic.

Mrs Strange’s visits did not stop after her second one, in fact she became a regular visitor and much needed acquisition of human warmth to the house in Harley street. With Sir Walter only returning late at night, the servants burrowing in their quarters the majority of the time and only Stephen and Lady Pole drifting through the floors like people often do in dreams, Arabella Strange’s presence had an effect similar to the act of opening the door of a long forgotten lumber room, light momentarily dispersing dark shadows.

Her smile, like a ray of sunshine, Lady Pole had caught herself thinking for the fifth consecutive time in one day; it was avery inappropriate thought, but her ladyship couldn’t help herself, Mrs Strange had a smile that lit up the whole room, a warm, sincere smile, in fact, it was the most wonderful smile Emma Pole had ever seen.

Her ladyship was not inclined to make such observations under the circumstances in which she was forced to live, but Arabella Strange had somehow made Emma’s waking moments almost enjoyable again.  
Days were no longer intervals between dreary ceremonies and bleak balls but glimpses of the freedom Lady Pole thought she had lost forever.

As the two ladies deepened their acquaintanceship, they soon figured out what was best not to talk about, as to not upset Lady Pole or sadden Mrs Strange.  
Talks of magic were out of the question, and so was Mr Norrell (particularly after the incident at the auction of the Duke of Roxburghe’s library).  
Odd as it were that two married women should never talk about their husbands, so it was in the drawing room with the Venetian paintings where the ladies spent all their time together in.  
Lady Pole did not like to talk about Sir Walter, even though Arabella had been told they were the most cheerful and loving newlyweds London’s respectable society had seen in years, and she of Jonathan, who never wrote to her.  
“My husband’s love has never done me any good” Arabella often heard her ladyship remark. And then she wondered ...

Lady pole was of a tranquil nature, calm and peaceful when not upset, not unlike a fawn, Mrs Strange thought, and soon discovered that she could soothe her simply with the touch of her hand. 

The presence of Arabella Strange had awoken in her ladyship a feeling dangerously close to hope.  
And perhaps something else too ..

At first it was the kindness.  
Such kindness as the one Arabella could convey in a single word, in the change of subject when she saw the conversation would start to distress her, in a stroke of her hair when she least expected it, such kindness had never been shown to Emma before. 

The she started realising that she relished the soft touch of Arabella's fingers on her skin and the way she moved her hair away from her eyes.

She had found herself inching slowly toward the other woman, eager to feel her warmth against her skin. 

Was this love? She asked herself one day, looking at Arabella, still unsure of what she could have possibly done to deserve such a genuinely caring friend in the dreadful captivity that her life had become.

Weeks and then months passed in the precarious equilibrium the two women had created between them.  
Emma was grateful for having a routine she didn't despise and Arabella for finally having found a true friend, that is to say not someone interested in her solely for of her husband's profession. But a fragile balance is difficult to keep, and although Lady Pole had stopped trying to vocally convey her distress to her new friend, she still suffered greatly from living a ghastly half-a-life she couldn't talk about the the one who had become so close to her.

Then, one morning, she finally found a way to reveal the secret she was forced to keep to the woman she loved.  
So she started embroidering Lost-hope for Arabella Strange.  
She so desperately wanted her to understand …to help.

Emma Pole felt, in her heart, that for some inexplicable reason Arabella Strange might be able to help her.

When the embroidered Lost-hope, complete with all it’s horrors, was nearly finished, Lady Pole worked on it deep into the night, no clock bells to tell the time.  
Exhausted, at around two in the morning, she had let Stephen lead her to her bed then bid him goodnight, reminding him that they’d be seeing each other soon, in Lost-hope.  
Had she only known what she would awaken to the following morning … 

 

Sir Walter had, as always, returned home late that night and had discovered that Lady Pole was still awake, in the drawing room, embroidering some sort of tapestry.  
He did not venture in, instead he stood outside the open door, watching her move about, letting himself marvel at the grace in her every movement, like he had done so many times in the days following their wedding.  
How short-lived their marital bliss had been.  
Memories of those days flooded his mind with the force of a river that has broken a dam. 

He still loved her.

He even remembered the first time they had met; true, when he had decided to call upon miss Wintertowne for the first time, it was partly due to the agreeable impression he had gotten from his friend's letter, and mostly because of her thousand a year. But then he remembered being stunned by her almost otherworldly beauty.  
He had found it was particularly difficult, although necessary if he didn't want to appear disrespectful, for him to avert his gaze from her captivating dark eyes, made even more so against her pale almost translucent skin.

He had then discovered that he couldn't speak, he had indeed just realised he'd never known what to say in these types of circumstances and Miss Wintertowne was trying desperately not to cough, her breathing quite disturbed.  
So, being under Mrs Wintertowne's watchful eye, silence filled the spacious drawing room.  
Then unexpectedly Miss Wintertowne smiled at him, her smile as bright as the stars, he had thought, although he wasn't a very poetic man, and apologised for her harsh breathing.  
Sir Walter had felt the skin around his wrist warm up, the words, he had thought, they were an apology! Convinced as he was that they must have had turned crimson, he had thought of little else for the remainder of the visit and only when safely on the carriage that would bring him home did he think of removing his right cuff to have a better look at the writing on his skin.  
It was, indeed, no longer scarlet but neither was it crimson. The words on his wrist were now faintly glowing of a surprizingly bright shade of violet.  
How odd, he remembered thinking, still she had made the colour change and he would marry her.

On their wedding night, as he lay contemplating his sleeping bride in such a pose that would have been called worship had he done it kneeling in a church, he had read the words on her ankle, “Oh I beg your pardon”.  
They could have easily been his own, truthfully he did not recall what his first words to Miss Wintertowne had been, but they were neither crimson coloured not violet; they were still scarlet.  
He did not know if it would be worse if her words should stay scarlet forever or that they should one day turn crimson in his absence.

But all that no longer mattered.  
It no longer mattered since the morning his wife had told him she did not wish to dance anymore.  
Since the day she had tried to speak to him about her troubles, but simply couldn’t. She couldn't speak.  
He remembered her pleading, begging him to understand her nonsense, "Please please” she’d repeated. It broke his heart.  
Was it really madness? She was not mad before the magic.

Still, more than the painful memories of Lady Pole’s descent into madness, the thought that tormented Sir Walter day and night was that he had asked Mr Strange if the enchantment that had brought the young lady he had hoped to make his bride back from the dead could be undone.  
He had told Strange that he feared neither of them could bear it much longer, but, as he noticed from his wife’s improved mood, improved, no doubt, by the frequent visits of one Mrs Strange, he was the one that could not bear losing his wife to magic induced madness.

So, after the traumatic events of the following morning, it was with a not insignificant amount of jealousy that Sir Walter agreed wholeheartedly with Mr Norrell’s suggestion that the visits of Arabella Strange to Lady Pole should be terminated.

 

The day after she and Stephen had discovered Lady Pole’s, thankfully failed attempt at ending her own life, Arabella resolutely made her way to the house in Harley Street. 

The day before she had stayed until the physician had left the house and was told that Lady Pole would indeed survive, but that it was a most ungrateful behaviour to want to die again after being taken from Death’s claws once already, didn’t she think? Arabella was still too shocked to come up with a decent response to the cruel comment in that moment.

She had come back because she desperately needed to see her friend, to verify she was alright in person, because she needed answers.  
When Stephen refused to let her in, it felt as if the world had collapsed unto her shoulders.

Stephen, the only other one who fully understood her ladyships distress, she thought he was her friend. Why would he of all people prevent her from seeing her friend in need?  
She remembered his last few muddled words, they sounded just like Emma’s … 

This was all too much for Arabella.  
She decided to walk home, she needed to move, to analyse her current situation in her house in Soho-square, at the mercy of servants and memories tied to it would have been madness.  
Madness? Had she just lost a friend to it?  
She was so very fond of her friend, or was she something more than a friend? Seeing her unconscious on the floor, the foul redness of the blood against her otherwise immaculate gown and skin, made her feel the same way she felt imagining her husband dead on the battlefield.  
The mere thought made her feel sick, nevertheless, she kept pacing through the city as the hours passed mercilessly by.

She remembered all the fabric on the floor, surrounding Emma, white as death, and she felt guilty, had Lady Pole destroyed her creation because she, Arabella refused to … see?  
But what could she have seen?  
She knew nothing of magic, that was her husband’s profession … Her husband, the husband who did not write to her, even though, the day he had left, he had promised he would do so every day.  
Thinking about him made her feel even more guilty, but why?  
Why should she feel guilty? For having … feelings for Emma Pole?  
And what were these feelings exactly, she asked herself, could it be that she craved affection in the absence of her own husband? But surely it couldn’t be just that. She genuinely cared for dear Emma, and enjoyed her company. She would have given anything to help her, to lessen the pain that plagued her, that prevented her from speaking clearly, that had driven her to ... to attempt to take her own life!  
This was too much, just too much!  
And to be forbidden from seeing her, that was the worst of all!  
Wether or not she loved this woman, she would do anything in her power to help.  
This last resolution had a strong calming effect on her, so she decidedly set for Soho-square, at peace, if only temporarily.

It was dark when she arrived.  
She entered the house and became suddenly aware that something had changed, she asked Mary, the maid, and then she saw him.  
Jonathan Strange, back from the war.  
Of course he was still the same Jonathan, her Jonathan, but he looked different, browner, fitter, and maybe even a little sadder than she remembered.  
Her mind went blank.  
“I am home” he said, looking slightly abashed.  
He looked so reassuringly familiar, and, despite her connexion with Lady Pole and all that came with it, she had missed him so much.  
Her eyes filled with tears. He was back!

So she did the only thing she could do, ignoring the whirlwind of new emotions roaring inside her head, she sought comfort in her husbands embrace, infinitely grateful for his safe return and more confused than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter nearly killed me. 
> 
> I apologise for the stylistic mess, some bits were written in a rush, some bits just flowed out of my awkward soul that way and I didn't have the heart to change them.
> 
> Also I blame Samuel West and his adorable puppy eyes for making me write that flashback. It's all his fault.


	5. London 1814 pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More reactions to Jonathan's return from the Peninsula and then somebody gets a nasty shock.

When Jonathan Strange returned from the Peninsula, there was one person in all of London who was positively ecstatic about his coming home, even more so than the magician’s own wife (who was still secretly confused about her own feelings), and that person was, of course, Mr Norrell.

Just as soon as he had visited the house in Hanover-square, Norrell would either talk to Strange or, in his absence, about Strange to anyone who would listen.  
Obviously there was no talking to Lascelles and Drawlight about magic, so the unfortunate task of listening to Norrell’s involuntarily successful attempts at making Strange’s magical feats sound tedious, fell on Childermass, who did not seem to mind in the least.

"Mr Strange has been studying a peculiar sort of magic” Norrell was excitedly explaining to Childermass in the library ”and told me discovered a spell that works with the words on one's skin"  
"And have you tried it sir?” the seemingly obvious question appeared to shock him.  
"I well, no, you see I ... Have no words on me. And yes I have checked. Thoroughly.” He spoke reluctantly and avoided the other man's eye.  
Suddenly he looked so small, even smaller than he usually did look, almost shrinking in his clothes and wig.  
Childermass took pity on his master and, for a moment, felt almost as if they were still at Hurtfew, just the two of them talking of magic.  
“Nor do I, Mr Norrell, nor do I."  
At these words Norrell smiled.

 

 

The ‘practice' of shared lodgings was common amongst soldiers and former members of the Army who could not, for a number of reasons, return to a home in the country somewhere, and thus found themselves in London, seeking solace in the presence of someone who had gone through similar experiences …and certain pecuniary advantages for those who were less wealthy.

In one of these such lodgings, near Covent Garden to be more precise, (major) Colquhoun Grant was absentmindedly brushing his uniform while waiting for De Lancey to return from one of his meetings with the general, or rather, the duke, as Wellington was now to be referred to in London, so that they may both join Mr and Mrs Strange for dinner at their house in Soho-square.  
Grant himself had seen Strange just earlier that day, it hadn’t been a long meeting, though it had been a highly satisfactory one, and Grant was, despite himself, infinitely grateful towards his lover, who found a way to visit him, in the midst of his many engagements, every day. 

London life had never suited him, although he could not precisely understand why, and Strange was a much needed comfort to the army man in times of peace, just as much as Grant had been to the magician in times of war. 

He was just thinking about Strange’s singularly perfect nose, what unusual yet endearing things do lovers think about each other indeed, when De Lancey entered the room, a bright smile spread across his face, made a complacent noise and collapsed upon his bed.

“You better be ready in half an hour or we’ll be late” Grant said, more to himself than to De Lancey, who, Grant knew, was inclined to ignore anyone and everyone who tried to speak to him after he’d had a meeting with his Grace, for an variable amount of time.  
Grant looked affectionately at his friend, who was still smiling, and thought ‘what a lovesick fool you are, dear William’.  
Almost as if in response to Grant’s thoughts De Lancey rose and smiled even brighter than before, which was no little achievement.  
“Colley you should have seen him! I never would have thought the day would come when I say civilian clothes suit him even better than his uniform, but oh! I swear they do” His eyes shone with a special, unique, kind of light whenever he spoke of Wellington, and Grant couldn’t help but wonder if his did they same when he spoke of Strange.  
“He feels like home, you know?” De Lancey was saying " I-I couldn’t define it any other way … when I am with him, I feel I am … at home.”  
“I know what you mean” it was Grant’s turn to smile now, for he knew exactly how … how at home he felt in Merlin’s arms.

A shadow must have passed across his face, because De Lancey stopped in the middle of a sentence to ask Grant if everything was alright.  
“Of course! Everything is fine. But hurry up or we’ll be late again and it would be rude to keep Mrs Strange waiting this way.”  
Mrs Strange … could she be what he felt was ‘standing between’ him and Merlin? He doubted it was her, if there really was something ‘standing between’ them, meaning that he had not simply imagined it all himself.  
Still he couldn’t help but feel that Jonathan was, in some moments, perhaps a little … distant.  
Although that was not quite the word he’d use to describe the peculiar feeling of alienation the magician sometimes contrived, it was the first that came to mind and the one that he would keep hidden in a secret part of his mind and heart for the years to come.  
“I am ready! Shall we go?”  
Shaken out of his grave meditations, Grant did not think of it for the rest of the evening.

 

 

A throbbing pain in the higher left corner of his chest forced Childermass’s eyes open. It took him a moment to recognise his surroundings, he was not in his own bed, but in a much more comfortable one, but he couldn’t remember how he had gotten there …  
Then the memories came flooding back in bits and pieces, making him relive the events that took place in the square … the magic that was everywhere … the woman brandishing a gun against his master- Norrell? And what of Norrell?  
Norrell was sitting at the foot of the bed and was looking at Childermass with an expression more cross than concerned, an expression many would have deemed inappropriate to direct at the man who had, after all, taken a bullet destined for him.

“Why were you performing Belasis’s scopus?"  
Childermass could’t believe this was the first question he was being asked after … after … How long had he been asleep?

Norrell was clearly unwilling to listen to him and, instead, insisted on asking about the magic. The increasing pain in his shoulder prevented Childermass from focusing on Norrell’s every word, yet some sentences stood out like lightning bolts in the darkness of a storm  
“how can I do my work when I’m constantly betrayed in this manner?” was one of these such sentences.  
So Norrell felt “betrayed"? How odd, for who would ever consider risking one’s like for one’s master as an act of betrayal?  
Norrell was also lying to him, once again, about the magic he had used to revive Lady Pole. Lady Pole- and idea had formed in Childermass’s mind; he knew just where to send her …. A violently painful coughing fit prevented him from further elaborating on the subject but made Norrell hand him a glass of water and sit on his bed in the familiar way he hadn’t treated him since the fashionable London gentlemen, Drawlight and Lascelles, first set foot in the house in Hanover-square.

But it was a momentary relief, for he soon got up and venomously spat  
“I’ve been in the most desperate need of you but you’ve been useless. You’ve been asleep for days."  
Childermass’s shocked silence made him realise how cruel it had been of him to say such a thing but his however heartfelt “Forgive me” had little effect on the wounded man. 

And yet Norrell was, unmistakably, still angry, which was unusual because Childermass knew how bad his master always felt after having insulted him, especially when he knew he was wrong in doing so.  
He wavered on the threshold, his back to the bed and said "You did not tell me about the words.” Words? Childermass thought he must have misheard because of the pain (and the fact that Norrell was facing the door)  
“The … words?” he finally managed to say, more confused than ever.  
“Yes, your words. Lascelles told me the physician found them as he was dressing your wound, they’re on the back of your left shoulder and- and they are crimson coloured!” he spat the last few words out like they were poison and left the room in a hurry, leaving a much bewildered Childermass to ponder upon the entirely unexpected discovery alone.

 

“Childermass knows, Childermass understands” sooner or later every one of his acquaintances had heard him make this remark, and he had been completely certain about it each and every time he had said so.  
But, upon brutally discovering that his most trusted man of business did not share his “condition”, he, Gilbert Norrell, eminent scholar and England’s first practical magician, felt like the loneliest man in the world.  
Him and his bare skin, he thought as he locked himself in his study, was something that, at present, not even Childermass could know, not even Childermass could understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried not to be *too* mean to the hamster-man I did I swear


	6. London 1814 pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the events at the end pt 1 took place during the day so these go way into the night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to thank AlexSimon for rescuing me in my hour of need. <3 [paraphrasing from a fic I really like] Such kindness, I do not think that I deserve it.

Feeling a stinging sensation of cold on his face and hands, Norrell opened his eyes.  
For a moment he didn’t recognise his surroundings, so different were the light and temperature from the ones he was used to, but in the end he had reasons to believe he was still in his study, although it was much darker and colder then it ever had been. A merciless draught was blowing from the ash-filled fireplace, the few candles that had remained lit were almost burnt out and the world outside the window had gone dark.  
Why hadn’t the servants revived the fire and replaced the candles like they ought to? Then he remembered, he had locked himself in. And after that? Nothing. Which would explain why he now found himself on the carpet, his limbs stiff and aching. (Had he… fainted? It seemed unlikely that he should remain unconscious for such a long period of time, yet there he was … ) He got up wearily, he felt a hollow ache in his chest too, and thought of the only person he could think of who would … help? Understand? Or maybe he just wanted to hear the other man’s voice so that it might soothe him. Dear Mr Strange, how he would have liked to see him now, to speak to him, to … Norrell let out a heavy sigh and then, unexpectedly, rushed to the door with only a hazy notion of what he would do once he’d gotten out.  
Ignoring the small crowd of concerned servants gathered right outside the room, he demanded Davey fetch him his cloak and ordered Lucas to drive him to the house in Soho-square at once.

 

Arabella was quite shocked to discover that the words on her ankle were no longer their usual scarlet colour but that they had, indeed, turned crimson.  
She hadn't the faintest idea of what that meant. Women, and wealthier women in particular, weren't supposed to talk about the words on theirs skin much, and she herself had only been asked cryptic questions from an old aunt on her wedding day, but every girl did know they had something to do with "old magic”.  
Her husband being a magician, it was only natural that she turn to him for advice on the matter, had it not been for the vivid memory connected to the words: a beautiful haunted-looking lady on a sopha. The implications that connected that memory to her words were things she could barely explain to herself, so how could she possibly ask Jonathan about them? 

Nevertheless Arabella was a smart, determined woman and she thought she’d already wasted enough time as it was.  
She went looking for Jonathan and found him in his study.  
He appeared to be writing a letter but she couldn't be sure since he kept on taking notes on several scraps of paper and then making small irritated noises as he copied them on the main page only to start writing on another piece of paper moments after.  
It was only after a scrap of paper drifted at her feet that Jonathan noticed her, as she had picked it up and handed it to him.  
"My dear! I was just answering a letter from Segundus-“  
“Dear Segundus, how is he?” Jonathan looked at her faintly surprized “He is well, I presume, but, how can you call him ‘dear’ when you’ve only seen him once I wonder”  
Arabella laughed “Oh but how can I forget the awe-struck way he looked at you?”  
“Honestly Bell!” he huffed “He only enquires about magic! Now for instance he has written to me asking about the red lettering on peoples’s skin, and I suspect his might have turned crimson since it appears he got so interested all of a sudden.”  
At the mention of crimson words blood rushed to Arabella’s cheeks and she inhaled sharply.  
“Oh really? Does it make that much of a difference when- if they change?” she asked, keeping her voice steady.  
“My dear, it makes a world of difference!” Jonathan was so delighted to be talking of magic he hardly noticed the sudden change in his wife’s demeanour. "You see-it is, I believe, the primary purpose for the lettering on one’s skin to change colour, if the change doesn’t occur it means that those whose words remain scarlet have not yet met their- their … Ah!” he raised his eyebrows and glared wide-eyed at the quill in his hand, struggling to find the right words, “The person with whom they ... are meant to be. It is said that when the two find each other, they will feel … whole again. As if they had never been whole before that moment and had never felt quite- I suppose one could say- ‘at home’ with anyone else and when they are are together they feel- they feel like they would know no greater joy than that of being in one another’s arms.”  
Jonathan had lifted his gaze from the quill and was looking straight at her.  
But Arabella, who had been taken aback by unexpected intensity of her husbands words, knew that look very well; her husband was indeed staring at her, but without really looking at her. It was a peculiar sort of habit he must have picked up in the Peninsula, she had thought, and yet, in that moment, it was just what she needed and she was ever so grateful for it - had he really been looking at her he’d have seen the effect the explanation had had on her and God knows what he would have had to say about it.  
"What is it you wanted to ask me my lo- Arabella?”  
Whatever composure she had regained in the few moments her husband had been lost in thought vanished “I- I came to ask you if we could sleep in separate bedrooms” she heard herself answer, without having any previous intention of saying so.  
Jonathan let out a surprized “What?” but Arabella was quick to reply that, apparently, it was a common arrangement amongst London’s fashionable society to do so, then she moved closer to him and added “- It needn’t change anything between us."  
She gently lay her hand on her husband’s arm and Jonathan let out a small gasp and then, most unexpectedly, nodded his head in agreement and, in doing so, stared at the floor, carefully avoiding his wife’s incredulous gaze and began “Yes I do think it is for the best, you see, there is something I was meaning to tell you, I-“ but whatever it was he had meant to tell her he was abruptly interrupted by Mary, the maid, who had entered the room and had declared, quite breathlessly, as if she had come up the stairs running, that Mr Norrell had arrived and was asking, or rather demanding, Mr Strange join him at once; “His wig’s all crooked!” she added, in hopes of convincing her master of the gravity of the situation.  
Jonathan cast an exasperated glance at Arabella and left the room.

He entered the parlour set on fixing his eyes on Norrell without even greeting him first, but, with just one look, whatever irritation was left for having been so rudely interrupted had vanished.  
The sight of him in his crooked wig might have been comical, if it weren’t for the his expression of complete and utter helplessness. Norrell was almost shrinking in the chair he had been offered and he stared at Strange with his small bright eyes widened with … fear?  
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair and said nothing.  
Jonathan felt a sudden rush of affection for his master, “You wanted to see me sir?” he offered helpfully.  
His words seemed to have a paralysing effect on Norrell. He had indeed come all the way to the house in Soho-square to talk to Strange about the words, his words, or lack thereof, but the affectionate manner in which he was being addressed reminded him of how personal a problem he was about to share and of how concerned he was about what Strange might think of him after the revelation of his … bareness.  
He shuddered, and then, not without some difficulty, began “I- I.. Yes. I have come to ask- no, to say to you that- that the discoveries you’ve made in Spain are- are incomplete!, to say the least and that you should- you should continue your research until you have found out everything you can- yes yes everything you can-“ he could not bring himself to say anything more.  
“But sir” Strange was by now quite confused “Could this not have waited until tomorrow?”  
Norrell looked at Strange with eyes even wider than before, which was something Jonathan wouldn’t have thought possible, got up, muttered a half-hearted apology and left the room.  
Jonathan wouldn’t have known what he could have said to stop him even if he’d wanted to. 

He headed back to his study, and found Arabella, who had already regained her composure and had ordered the servants to make the necessary arrangements for them to sleep in separate bedrooms, waiting for him at the top of the stairs.  
Both seemed to sense that neither could have continued the conversation they had started in the study.  
Arabella rushed into her husband’s open arms, and, as he held her tucked under his chin, she repeated “It needn’t change anything between us …” until he he let his grip slacken and kissed her on the forehead.  
“Forgive me my dear, but you know tonight I really must go”  
“Yes, yes of course, I knew that. Where are you going again?”  
“Covent Garden”

Technically that wasn’t a lie, for major Grant did live near Covent Garden, and, as much as it pained Strange to leave his wife at a time like this, it would ha been a pity to abandon Grant on a night they had the house all to themselves.

 

 

They were already kissing even before they reached the room, so as soon as they had both crossed the threshold Grant had immediately let himself get pushed against the wall, his arms raised at the level of his temples, as if in an unequivocal act of surrender, as Strange entwined their fingers together and brought those pliant arms to wrap around his body and then cupped the other man’s face with his own, deepening their kiss as their hands nimbly worked trough the buttons and sleeves.  
When they were both stripped from the waist up their lips finally parted and exchanged a dazed smile, the kind of smile one dares to show after a considerable amount of wine had been shared, only they happened to be quite sober, albeit obviously “drunk” on one another’s affection.  
Normally such a smile would have prompted more kisses, but they weren’t in a hurry and a soft bed was waiting just a few steps away.  
“I thought that, by now, you ought to have learned a way to undress by magic!” Grant teased, as he ridded himself of his last pieces of clothing.  
“Oh but it would be a great deal less enjoyable that way, would it not?” Strange, who was already sitting on the bed, naked as well, looked at Grant with a particular glint in his eyes Grant just couldn’t resist. “Come here.” he added as he looked deep into the other man’s eyes.  
In a moment Grant was on Merlin’s lap and they started kissing again, it was a long, passionate, insatiable kiss. A kiss that left them hot and breathless and extremely happy.

Then, as Strange lay on the bed, Grant trailed soft kisses from his forehead to his stomach before climbing on top of him and spreading his legs to straddle him until they reached a comfortable position,  
Grant took Merlin’s hand and marvelled at it (God, he loved absolutely everything about the man!) before putting it in his mouth and started liking it sedulously, his gaze fixed on Strange, carefully observing the effect to had on him, and he very much liked what he saw.  
When he felt Merlin’s fingers were wet enough, he slid them out of his mouth and looked at him expectantly.  
“Are you sure you want to do this, my love?” Merlin enquired, “because if if you’re not I could always-“  
“I am sure” Grant was quick to reply “Tonight we have enough time and I …” I /want you/ so much, he’d have liked to say, but he was afraid he’d sound just like that lovesick fool De Lancey.  
Strange appeared to have somehow sensed his thoughts because he smiled at him and said “Very well then, I trust your judgement. And besides” he planted a swift and unexpectedly sweet kiss on his mouth "you are no fool”.  
So Strange entered him, at first with his fingers and then, even more slowly with his cock. When they were finally in a comfortable position, what Grant felt so great he was sure the sensation would almost had sufficed to bring him off on its own, even without Strange’s skilful stroking, although he was, of course, delighted of his doing so.  
The major started rocking softly until he felt Stranges’s body arching under him, the building pleasure so intense the both of them had to close their eyes and became suddenly much more aware of the other man’s body and touch. Their heartbeats were racing and their breathing was getting more and more ragged, their hands eager to feel as much of the other’s body as they could.  
And finally came Grant’s favourite part: the closer Strange got to his climax the harder it was for him to suppress the tantalising, not quite high-pitched, noises his voice made that were as hated by Strange as they were adored by Grant.  
When Strange finally came into him, with one last delightful cry, Grant shuddered with pleasure and it wasn’t long before he himself spilled onto Strange’s beautiful hand. He then let himself curl next to his lover, his head resting on his chest and his fingers running trough his damp curls, as their breaths and heartbeats steadied.

Seized by a sudden inspiration, Grant sat up and looked at Jonathan.  
“Kiss me” he said. It was not quite a question yet not quite a request either.  
Jonathan was happy to comply.  
Then Grant pulled away and smiled at Merlin’s pout at having been denied further access to the major’s lips.  
“Do some magic” again, it was not quite a request, yet not quite a question either.  
Jonathan tilted his head and stood up a little straighter, already starting to concentrate on the task.  
“What did you have in mind? Anything in particular?”  
Grant did not answer, he simply smiled.  
Jonathan shifted his gaze from the major’s eyes to the ceiling then suddenly the air around them went still, and Grant felt the same odd sensation one feels just before a summer storm surprizes them in an open field.  
At first he did not notice any visible differences in the room, but then he became aware of a certain change of lighting. He looked up and saw that the ceiling and roof were slowly disappearing and soon enough moonlight flooded the room and bounced off the white sheets, the small window and the big mirror in the corner.  
“Is it gone?” incredible how Merlin still managed to astound him even after the great deal of magic he had already seen him perform.  
“No, I have only made it transparent, so that we might see trough it, but it is very much still there”  
Now, gloriously naked Merlin bathed in moonlight was a sight major Grant could have stared at forever; still common decency dictated the magic should cease as soon as possible, lest somebody in the street might point out the missing, pardon- transparent, roof.  
Merlin nodded in agreement and concentrated on the spell once more.

As Grant stared at the magician, at the way he gazed at the retreating moonbeams until the spell was over, he felt something inside of him shift, something like a vague warning, a newfound awareness, something not all too pleasant, yet unmistakably there. 

He decided to ignore it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing smut is really hard. Please forgive my mess and remember that constructed criticism is always welcome.


	7. Lost-hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile in the Otherlands

“My my Stephen, such a thing of beauty, the magician’s wife.” the gentleman with the thistle-down hair whispered in Stephen Black’s ear.   
The butler soon found he was no longer sitting on a stool, polishing silver, but in the hallway of the familiarly lugubrious castle, if one could call that fortress in ruins so, of Lost-hope.  
The gentleman was once again expressing his musings on Mrs Strange; he’s been making such (and much worse) remarks ever since he first laid eyes on her but they had become more and more frequent of late, and Stephen was beginning to fear for the fate of his mistress’s dear friend.   
“I sense a great magic binding her to Lady Pole, not as powerful as my own of course, in fact I am sure i could break that bond, if it would so please me ... But tell me Stephen, why is it that Christians have words on their skin that change colour?”  
“You fa- yourself do not have any sir?”   
The gentleman glowered at him.  
Stephen was glad the subject had deviated from talks of the magician’s wife, but realised his question might have been of a somewhat impertinent nature, judging by the queer light in the gentleman’s eyes, and so he was quick to add “They are, I believe, the words someone particularly dear to one must speak to make them change.”   
The gentleman appeared to be greatly fascinated. “And do you have any Stephen?” he rather avidly enquired. ”Oh but I do see them now, they are right here on your neck! How odd, I had never noticed them before.”  
Stephen felt very uncomfortable.   
Of course he wouldn’t have wanted his tormentor discover such a personal and intimate notion, but he could have hardly avoided it for, if one looked closely, part of the crimson lettering on the right side of his neck was always visible just above his collar.   
“And to whom do these searing crimson words belong? Why to the excellent Mrs Brandy I am certain!” the gentleman cried.  
Stephen held his breath.  
“Oh but we shall not invite her to Lost-hope until you are married, my dear Stephen, for only then she might be welcomed like a queen!” he sounded very pleased with himself. Stephen let out a discreet sigh of relief, with everyone under the impression he suffered from low spirits, he doubted Mrs Brandy was still inclined to marry him, she was safe.  
“That is most gracious of you sir.”  
The gentleman turned around and locked his gaze on Stephen’s and sentenced, most gravely, “Then you must become king soon, very soon. But do not worry, I shall have you fulfil your destiny Stephen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that  
> 1) it took me this long to update   
> 2) it's only lost-hope because, while I have written quite a few other parts of the story, I still haven't finished writing the chapter I meant to post tonight 
> 
> My life has been changing non-stop since last spring so I let writer's block get to me, reader's block get to me, this one particularly tricky bit to write get to me, other personal stuff get to me, life in general get to me until a few days ago when I decided it was the right time I finished this.
> 
> I can't tell you how often I'll be able to post, because I myself do not know when I'll have enough time to write it all down the way it deserves, but I can tell you this- the story is there, I have it, Inspiration was good to me when she struck me, even if it feels like half a lifetime ago. It's there. I just have to write it all down, and I promise you I will.


End file.
